


Duke's Brain (or "A Layman's Defense of Cartesian Dualism")

by beetle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Arguing, Bad Haiku, Boys In Love, Breaking Up & Making Up, Dualism, Failboats In Love, First Love, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, LGBTQ, M/M, Making Up, Opposites Attract, Pretentious Title, Romantic Angst, Romantic Comedy, Romantic Gestures, Utter Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 06:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10530933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Duke and Jamie have problems communicating. They're rarely on the same wavelength, until . . . with one desperate, romantic gesture and help from Duke's brain . . . suddenly, they are.Repurposing of an older fanfic. Guess which one :-D





	

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: None.

Jamie Gardner was, _at last_ , on _fire_!

He sat on the roof outside his bedroom window—one leg tucked under him, the other hanging over the edge of the roof, his VAIO parked carefully between them—and tapped away at his laptop. He was about twenty-four _painstaking_ pages into a final twenty-five-page research paper for Professor Mortimer’s class and—though he never bragged, even to himself—not only was the paper coherent and on-point, but it was, for a guy who’d only ever gotten fair-to-middling grades in English, pretty spiffily written, too.

Despite his week-long struggles to _write the damn thing_ , the paper was finally writing _itself_ , from thesis to conclusion. Jamie Gardner was, in the parlance of Melissa and many of their friends, _killin’ it_. Even his conclusion, which was usually too forceful and showed his hand way too much, managed to sound calm and objective, fair and final.

 _Professional_ , if you will.

Moonlight shone down on him in a silver spill as he worked out the last lines of his masterpiece. He subconsciously soaked it in and let it fuel his typing which was, for once, up to the task of keeping up with his thinking.

(He’d long since admitted to himself that he was now, whatever he’d once been, a night-owl. He thought better and wrote better at night, under the cool and ponderous light of moon and star than he did under the harsh, arid light of the sun.)

Yes, Jamie Randal Gardner was in _the Zone_. After toiling away at the research for this paper for the past three weeks and attempting to write it with no success for a solid _week_ of trying; after sleepless nights spent in the library at school, at the main branch of the public library, or at various diners with various study-groups; after burying himself in _anything_ else with the hopes that it’d inspire him; after ceaselessly bouncing ideas off an always-calm Becca Sturgeon (easily the smartest person in their year, and Jamie had no problem admitting that); after a week of nothing but school-work and _work_ -work and his internship—after a week during which his boyfriend had been suspiciously and worryingly absent, with no word of warning—Jamie Gardner was _at last_ one hundred percent, in the Zone- _focused_ and putting the finishing touches on the toughest paper of his young life.

So he didn’t notice the lateness of the hour, nor did he notice the admiring eyes on him or the unstealthy approach of another into person in Gardner-territory. He didn’t hear the solid, motorcycle-booted footsteps coming up the porch steps or the throat that was cleared almost directly below him. And he _certainly_ didn’t catch the slight shift of interrupted moonlight hitting the ground in the form of new shadows.

(Normally, this _particular_ visitor could never sneak up on Jamie, though he occasionally tried, nonetheless.)

In fact, he didn’t notice _anything_ other than the occasional mosquitos— _ugh, spring_ . . . Jamie was very much a _fall_ person—he had to wave away from his face, until his phone buzzed.

Humming distractedly, but fondly, Jamie dug his on-vibrate phone out of his pocket, half-thinking it was his mom texting him from her cruise—all the way to the Bahamas and back; the first vacation she’d allowed herself since Jamie’s father had passed, and certainly the first she’d ever taken _alone_ —to remind him to lock up and to not leave the toaster or coffee maker plugged in overnight.

Entering his lock-pin with one thumb while his other hand hunted and pecked the final words of his paper—seriously . . . the neighbors were going to come running with CO2 extinguishers, he was on so much _fire_!—he glanced away from the laptop’s gently glowing screen and dipped into his messages.

There _was_ a message, alright. But not from his mom.

From _Duke_.

Jamie stopped typing, literally _three_ words away from done, paper mostly put aside for the moment—definitely _not_ forgotten, though it was a near thing, because . . . _Duke_ —as he gazed, wide-eyed and conflicted, at his phone.

Duke . . . who hadn’t stopped by to see, or even so much as IMed Jamie since Saturday.

Duke . . . who’d—without asking or informing Jamie—at their mutual place of employment, **Armin’s Arcade** , literally written his name down in every slot on the emergency schedule change sheet Jamie’d anxiously left in the employee lounge on Sunday. Duke had picked up _all_ twenty-two hours Jamie’d had to drop because of school and everything else coming to a frantic head over the past week.

 _Duke_ . . . whom Jamie had missed _terribly_ . . . then with whom he’d grown intensely angry. Then turned depressed over. Then wondered, with a numbness born of devastation, if the other man was mad at him, or . . . or simply _tired_ of him.

 _Maybe_ , he’d thought morosely this morning, when he could barely get out of bed, and not because he was so tired—though, after another sleepless, unproductive night he _was_ —but because he was so damned _depressed_. Everything, even school, had suddenly seemed fantastically pointless. _Maybe, this is how they let ‘em down easy in Chicago, Illinois. Maybe this is my boyfriend handing me my walking papers after just six months. . . ._

Frowning a bit, heart in his throat, Jamie drew in his first breath in nearly two minutes and, with wide, suddenly blurred eyes, opened the message just as a second one came in:

**Duke Vincent <3: Hey hey baby**

**Duke Vincent <3: U me in ur bed 1 min**

_One minute?_ Jamie asked himself, glancing back at his laptop for just long enough to save his work. _We’re usually in bed for a_ lot _longer than_ that _, even when we’re both pretty desperate. What does he mean by just_ one min _—_

Just then, Jamie heard the doorbell ring below him. Then, because Duke had all the patience of a five years old, it rang _again_ , almost immediately after, as if Duke had been kept waiting for some inexcusable amount of time.

Never mind that _he’d_ been the one who’d kept _Jamie_ waiting on tenterhooks for almost eight days, now. Never mind that Jamie had spent so much time worrying if his lover was trying to leave him that he’d literally only been able to buckle-down and focus on the research paper the night before it was due—thank goodness for stress-induced inspiration and despair-deflecting distractions.

And now, Duke had the nerve—the absolute, unmitigated _gall_ —to come around, horny as per usual, expecting Jamie to just drop everything and bend over?

Eyes narrowed almost to the point of being shut, Jamie closed his laptop with an angry click.

“ _Damnit_ , Duke!”

#

Demarest “Duke” Vincent, exhausted and pretty beat-up after a week of doubled and tripled shifts, took his finger off Jamie’s doorbell and leaned against the wall next to the door. He waited happily, though still with a dismaying amount of weariness and ache, for his baby-doll to hurry and let him in, so the Sex-lympics could begin.

After the night he’d had, and the all the shit he’d taken—nothing but rude, thankless kids, tweens, and teens, all clamoring to get their digital fix on, and spend their parents’ hard-earned bread on the same kinds of games they could play for free at home—all he wanted was Jamie’s loving arms, the desperate possessiveness of his overwhelming kisses, and the gentle, oranges-and-vanilla sweetness of his skin . . . the tight welcome of that deceptively slight body as it clenched around him and anchored him. The—

Suddenly Jamie’s front door slammed open and Duke automatically straightened up, shoulders squared and arms flexed as he turned to face the door and his sexy little sweetheart.

“Hey-hey, swee—um. . . .” Duke fell silent and blinked at the vision before him. Dressed in his usual forty-seven layers of clothing, which included a white Henley, a grey t-shirt over that, baggy blue jeans, and— _unusually_ —bare feet, narrow and rather delicate, with long, pale, twiddling toes, Jamie was wearing a _fuck_ of a lot more clothing than Duke had been expecting and hoping for. He was also carrying his laptop clutched in his arms like a Teddy bear.

Or maybe a chastity belt.

“Is it possible for you to be any _less_ romantic, Demarest Vincent?” Duke’s precious, perfect bae demanded angrily, his pointy, pretty face set in a fierce scowl, his storm-grey eyes narrowed accusingly. His cheeks were flushed and his plush, pink mouth was set in a purse-lipped pout that Duke instantly _wanted_ to kiss away, but sensed maybe he shouldn’t, considering that even Jamie’s shaggy, dark-brown hair—normally floppy—seemed to practically _bristle_ , at the moment, with anger.

“Uh—whah?” Duke tried grinning his most sexy grin, then shrugged helplessly, temporarily at a loss, when Jamie merely glared and scowled all the more intensely. “What’s up, baby? Is my sexy, in-your-face charm gettin' you hot and bothered?”

And Duke knew the moment those words came tripping from his slightly chapped lips that they were the absolute _wrong_ thing to say at this, or any other moment. And _not_ just because it was _him_ who'd said them. But it was too late to _un_ -say them.

His expression flickering rabbit-quick between surprise-hurt-upset-disappointment-weariness-anger, Jamie leaned in close, that final feeling radiating off him in waves as he glared up into Duke’s surprised eyes. And though Duke’s boy was, at five-foot-nine, five and a half inches shorter—not to mention fairly compact despite his _surprising_ wiry strength—he certainly seemed to tower in this moment. “I mean, really?! _U me in ur bed 1 min_? Is that honestly the _best_ way you could think of to tell your _boyfriend,_ who’s been _buried_ under a damn research paper and an internship with the biggest, slave-driving-est asshole since Rameses, that you . . . you maybe _missed_ him and wanna touch him and make love to him after not seeing him for almost eight days?” Now Jamie’s eyes widened to the point that Duke could make out flecks of amber and green in toward Jamie’s contracted pupils. And boy, were those big, pretty eyes shiny and getting a bit red.

 _Allergies?_ Duke’s brain supplied with a shrug. _It_ is _that time of year. Ragweed and pollen are falling like Mother Nature’s trying to make it rain!_

Duke had serious doubts, however that was what was bothering his sweetheart, who didn’t even _have_ such mundane allergies. But what else _could_ it be making Jamie’s eyes so watery and irritated-red?

“Hey, baby-doll, why’re your eyes all shiny?” Duke asked gently, reaching out to _boop_ the tip of Jamie’s pointy little pixie-nose with his index finger. And for a moment, that angry expression faltered into something vulnerable and unhappy . . . something that made Duke’s chest hurt and his stomach churn, because . . . _oh, sweetheart . . . you should_ never _look like that while_ I’m _around to do something about it_. . . .

And then, while Duke was processing the fact that his boyfriend _might_ be on the verge of . . . of _tears_ , his stupid brain took control and spoke for him again. “Not to mention all red? You been hittin’ the ol’ peace-pipe without me, Jamie-baby? What _else_ you been doin’ solo, pretty-eyes?”

Waggling his eyebrows suggestively— _never_ a smart idea unless Jamie was smiling—Duke only belatedly noticed the way Jamie’s brows drew in and his perfect mouth trembled for a moment. _Just a moment_ , before Jamie was glaring and almost snarling.

“You . . . JERK!” Jamie jabbed Duke in the left pectoral, right above his nametag, with his index and middle fingers, and some _serious_ strength . . . for a twink. Duke stepped back a bit, utterly confused and still clueless as to why his boyfriend was so angry. “You absolute . . . _fucking_ . . . JERK!”

“Baby—” Duke began lowly, hands held out in supplication as he inwardly kicked himself for upsetting Jamie _yet again_.

“I haven’t slept in, like, _four days_! And—and—my supervisor at the internship from Hell has been on the warpath for the past _five_! None of the samples I take are _good_ enough! And Melissa and Becca are on the outs _again_ and they have me running passive-aggressive messages between them like I’m a freaking carrier pigeon! And I only _just_ got a handle on my research paper after fighting with it all week—I am literally _this_ _close_ to being done with my _final_ paper for my most _demanding_ professor—and not only haven’t you called me _once_ to ask me how I’ve been doing, or if I miss you, or if I’m okay, or if I’m losing my freaking _mind_ —haven't even called to let me know how _you_ are, and that you aren’t dead in a ditch or worse _—_ but when you finally _do_ choose to contact me, it’s because you’re _horny_! You . . . DICK!”

Duke blinked and flushed. In his head, his brain was suspiciously silent, offering nothing but the kind of static fuzz that ran on local access channels at four in the morning.

Jamie was still ranting, his eyes shinier than ever, huge and upset and avoiding Duke’s face. “And . . . Mom’s only been gone for a couple days, now, but the house feels big and empty without her in it! It’s just been _me_ , by myself, the few hours I’ve actually been home! And it’s quiet and boring and makes me _lonely_ and I _missed_ you and I couldn’t _sleep_ and I thought you were trying to _end things_ between us and—and—” Jamie came to a sputtering stop, one shaking hand coming up to cover his eyes for a few moments as he inhaled a breath that stuttered. It _really_ sounded like a sniffle.

“End things between us? _Never_ , Jamie. We— _I_ —would never let you go unless you asked me to. You’ve got my _heart_ , baby-doll. You _are_ my heart. There’s no changing that, as far as I’m concerned. The only reason I stayed away was because you said you wished you had more time to work on . . . well, _work_. So, I . . . I figured I’d give you some time and space. I thought that was what you _wanted_. What you were too sweet to outright ask for,” Duke hurried to say while his speechless and guilt-riddled brain continued to offer up static. Then, for another minute, he was at a total loss for words again because of the pain that seemed to spread from high in his left chest, to the rest of him. It _totally_ drowned out the weariness and aches of the day and evening. 

Jamie’s hand dropped away from his face, to clutch at his laptop again. But he met Duke’s eyes warily, unblinking, wet lashes fluttering with impatience. Mentally crossing his fingers, Duke ignored his nonsensically stammering brain and let his gut take the reins. “I know I soak up a lotta your time, baby, and so does work, so I kept my distance for the past week and picked up your hours. Even been nice to the kids and to Francis, just like you are! No worries on _that_ count!”

After a few long, tense moments, Jamie snorted, watery and quiet. “Oh, yeah . . . Francis’s been having a field-day sending me bitchy texts and emails about the way you’re ‘nice to the kids.’ But . . . at least you’re not telling the littler ones they’re adopted, anymore.” Sighing, his narrow shoulders sagging, Jamie ducked his head a bit before looking up again. The eyes that stared into Duke’s were still red, but a little less shiny. And _very_ tired. “While I’m . . . grateful to you for picking up my slack while I’ve been trying to keep my head above water, Duke . . . you could’ve _asked_ if you not being around for a while was what I wanted. If being abandoned for a week with no word and no idea _why_ was a _good_ idea, ‘cause . . . I coulda told you otherwise.”

Swallowing around something big and beat-y that felt like his heart, Duke reached out to brush his fingers down Jamie’s smooth cheek, but stopped himself at the last moment, his hand dropping impotently to his side once more. “I know you can’t concentrate as well when I’m around distractin’ you with my bullshit and wanting to touch you and hug you all the time. And you’re too damn sweet and kind to just tell me to take my sorry ass elsewhere.”

“No, I’m not. I’m neither sweet nor kind. I'm just . . . I’m _happier_ when you’re around. So, _of course_ , I wouldn’t tell you to take your _fine_ ass elsewhere. Because I _want_ that fine ass within grabbing-distance of me _always_.” Jamie almost smiled. Almost. “And I _like_ being distracted by your bullshit and touches and hugs, Duke. Maybe they _ground_ me. Maybe I don’t feel right in my _own_ _skin_ without them.”

Duke didn’t know what to say to that. Neither did his gut. And while they were both trying to figure out what Duke was feeling and how to speak around the throbbing lump of heart in his throat, his brain dared to come forward again, happy and carefree, once more. “GREAT, Jamie-baby . . . so . . . you and me? And your bed? One minute?” Duke grinned hopefully and made a circle with the index finger and thumb of his right hand and poked his left index finger through the circle repeated and pointedly, before nodding. “Tick-tock, sexy-pants, I’m harder’n _titanium_!”

All the color, softness, and fondness leached from Jamie’s face as his eyes somehow widened and narrowed at the same time, his coat-hanger shoulders squared, and his hands bunched into fists as he clutched his laptop even closer, like it was armor.

“That’s _it_!” he gritted out, turning to storm back into his Mom’s house, muttering angrily to himself. Duke automatically took a step after him, hands once more held out in supplication.

“Wait, Jamie-jam! Where ya goin’?” he pleaded, stopping at the threshold like the world’s most pathetic vampire, as Jamie turned to face him again, his eyes as hard and cold as stones left on winter-frozen ground.

“I _don’t_ wanna see you, Demarest.”

Going cold, himself, at that icy tone _and_ Jamie calling him _Demarest_ in their off-hours, Duke turned to his gut in his confusion and once again, his normally facile instinct for saving a situation gone pear-shaped, had nothing to offer, seeming just as flustered as Duke. His brain, too, was confused and, as usual when he was confused on all his levels, Duke said the very first stupid thing to pop out of said brain and roll down to his mouth.

“Oh, well, that’s fuckin’ _great_!” he barked and sneered, even as he winced inside: he wasn’t the best looking guy on the planet as it stood: all hatchet-y, cro-magnon features and muddy hazel eyes, long, stringy, dish-water blond hair and resting murder-face. But when he sneered, he was downright scary, and he knew it. Not that he’d ever frightened _Jamie_. Duke’s boyfriend had the heart of freaking _lion_. The only things Jamie Gardner feared were bad grades and being late for work. “If you didn’t wanna see me, why’d you _say_ all that stuff about _wantin’_ me around, after all? Why’d you get all upset that I stayed away for a week? Fuck, why’d you even bother _comin’ down here_ , offa your little perch, Jamie-babe?”

In the silence that immediately followed, Jamie’s wide-narrow eyes flickered again, with that painful combination of hurt and anger, and he shook his head ruefully, looking at Duke as if he was a stranger. And not a potentially _welcome_ stranger, either.

“First thing, Demarest? _Birds_ perch in nests. I _ponder_ in my fortress.” Jamie gave Duke a measuring once-over that did _not_ seem terribly impressed. His voice, when he went on, was superficially pleasant and brutally sarcastic, even though it trembled just a tiny bit. “Second? I came down here so I could slam this door in your face. Kinda like this.”

The next thing Duke knew, there was a wall of white wood about three millimeters away from his face and a loud _BANG_! reverberating throughout the neighborhood.

A few moments later, the light coming from around the edges of the slammed door and shining through the small windows to either side of it, went out.

Duke covered his face with his hands, fingers clenching till he had half-moon indentations all around his face. When he finally let go, cool air hit his hot, damp skin on the back of a breeze redolent of green and maybe a hint of rain the next day.

Duke wiped his own shiny, red eyes and sniffled.

“Shit,” his ramskazzled instinct stepped forward to say. But it was also speaking for Duke and his stupid brain, too.

#

_I think maybe our bae wants us to be more . . . romantic-like. . . ._

This was the first thing Duke’s brain had supplied in almost twenty minutes, since Duke had sat down with his back against Jamie’s front door, arms dangling between his knees and head hanging, at a loss as to what to do.

Now, at the unhelpful organ’s attempt at _being helpful_ , Duke snorted.

“Ya think, Johnny Obvious?”

Though Duke knew—his _gut_ knew—it wasn’t that simple. Of course, Jamie probably _did_ want more romance, but . . . Duke was forced to admit to himself that a part of Jamie . . . a _large part_ . . . may have finally given up on that, after tonight. May have given up on _them_.

 _Take that back!_ Duke’s—frankly—childish brain blurted out angrily. _Baby-doll would_ never _give up on us! He_ loves _us! More than anyone ever has! He’s an_ angel _and angels_ never give up _. Not even on devils like_ us!

“Perhaps _this_ angel’s reached his saturation point,” Duke muttered sadly, then went on when both brain and gut were too horrified to reply. “I’ve never been good at communication. _Talking_ , yes. Communication . . . not so much. And romantic stuff, like Jamie seems to want, _means_ being able to communicate good. Like that self-help book said: ‘Interpersonal communication is the foundation of romance. After all, how can one _be_ what one’s lover finds romantic, if one doesn’t _know_ what one’s lover finds romantic?’”

 _Point,_ Duke’s brain admitted bitterly, then began to sputter and stammer. _But we_ are _romantic! We’re romantic as_ balls _! Whadda we have to do to prove it?_ the irascible grey matter demanded, but almost plaintively. _Should we write a poem about how we feel? And the stars and the moon and . . . stuff? Would_ that _make him take a chance on us again? Ooh! We remember how to write sonnets and sestinas and shit! From high school! We could write metric fuck-tons of poetry about Jamie-baby! And_ some of it _might not even suck that hard!_

“Really? You remember how to write sestinas?” Surprised, Duke blinked up at the sky, at the super moon and the washed-out stars sharing the heavens with it. “And are you _seriously_ planning to text Jamie an entire _sestina?_

His brain hemmed and hawed, before finally spitting out a terse and grumpy: _We totally_ could _, you know? Because while_ you _were staring at cute theater club boys and trying to will away persistent hard-ons,_ I _was paying attention in junior year English with Mrs. Risley._

Smiling a little, Duke dug out his phone again and unlocked it with his pin-pattern. “Okay, then. Let’s dazzle Jamie with our mad, fresh flow. Just . . . _not_ with a sestina. Not when message and data rates apply,” he said. Then he was opening his message center and selecting the most recent recipient: **< 3Bae <3**. “Haiku, maybe? But with _nature_ , too? Nature can be _very_ romantic.”

 _A haiku_ is _a poem about nature. The same poetry format regarding anything_ else, _but especially the expression of emotion, is called a_ senryu, Duke’s brain offered snottily.

“Oh, calm your tits, Lord Byron.” Duke rolled his eyes. “A haiku-senryu, it is. About love _and_ nature . . . but maybe not, like, _Discovery Channel-_ nature.”

 _Of course, not!_ his brain huffed, sounding so offended, Duke chuckled to himself, his low, gravelly rumble drifting up into the night. He poked at his brain—at _himself_ —with mischievous glee.

“Remember that time we saw that documentary where the Great White ate that bear, though? That was fucking _classic_! _Shark Week_ is the _BOMB-DIGGITY!_ ”

 _Yeah, sure . . . it’s awesome._ Sighing after such a unconvincing-agreement, Duke’s brain subsided for a few moments, likely rifling through its meager storehouse of off-rhymes. Then it was back with a grumble and empty hands. _But_ Shark Week _is_ not _romantic._

“You’re not wrong,” Duke admitted, suddenly serious. “Yeah, even _I_ can see where it wouldn’t be. We gotta come up with something short, sweet, and original. And we gotta do it _fast_. >”

_Yeah . . . but no pressure, right?_

“None, whatsoever. Now, let’s focus. And no Discovery Channel-poems.” Duke’s finger hovered over the keypad. “Somethin’ . . . _sweet_. And in which no bears get eaten.”

The phone was about to go into rest-mode before his brain finally suggested the first line almost shyly. After a startled moment—it was _good_. Like, _really_ good. Not that Duke was any judge of _any_ poetry that didn’t start with: _There once was a man from Nantucket_ —Duke’s finger was skating across the small keyboard.

#

Sitting against the front door, in the darkness, laptop forgotten on the hallway table with the mail and take-out menus, Jamie Gardner wiped at his eyes for the millionth time.

He’d always been impatient with his own tears, but never more so than he found himself to be at these particular moments. The moments after he . . . _maybe_ . . . broke up with his first serious boyfriend.

 _Oh, don’t be so dramatic, James,_ he told himself irritably, in a voice that sounded like a combination of his mother’s and his best friend Melissa’s. _You didn’t_ break up _with Duke and_ he _didn’t break up with_ you _. It was just a stupid fight because you’re tired and overly-sensitive, and he’s tired and_ in _sensitive. It was bad timing on_ both _your parts, and sometimes that happens in even the best, most stable relationships. You two have only known each other for a year and have been dating for half of that. It’ll take time before you’re both on the same page more than you’re not_.

“But . . . he ditched me for _a week_ , then only came around because he wanted to—to fuck me!” Jamie complained in a mumble to that voice, wiping at his eyes again. “There’s a difference between not being romantic and just _not_ giving a shit about the guy you’re serial-boning.”

That Mom-Melissa voice snorted. _And you really think that Duke’s the latter? That the guy who’s been pining after you admittedly since the day you met, who_ wept _the first time you kissed him_ and _after the first time he made love to you—who’s spent the past week wrangling snot-nosed brats in your name so you could focus on your paper and that damned_ internship _. . . not to mention giving you time and space to_ concentrate _on those things when he loves nothing more than being around you, and distracting you and just_ basking _in you—you really think that_ that guy _doesn’t give a shit about you? That he only wants to_ serial-bone _you, as you so quaintly think of it?_

“Well. . . .” Jamie sniffled pathetically. “He can’t even communicate with me to let me know that he’s _trying_ to be helpful, as opposed to slow-motion kicking me to the curb! He’s a fucking _disaster_ at being a considerate boyfriend! He _tries_ , but . . . it _always_ goes awry and _I’m_ the one who winds up hurt!”

_And is that so unforgivable a sin? Earnest, but clumsy attempts at being considerate and loving?_

“No! But it’s—it’s _painful_! It _hurts_! I don’t know how much longer I can put up him being a tone-deaf _clod_ all the time!” Jamie buried his face in his hands with a soft, sad moan. “ _I’m_ trying, too. I really am. But sometimes . . . sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who _is_. That maybe taking what we have—or what he _thinks_ we have—for granted is just in Duke’s nature. Maybe it’s just who he is. Maybe . . . maybe there’s no _changing_ him and no _getting used_ to who he is,” he whispered into the darkness, even as his chest started to hurt and breathing became difficult. His stomach even started to churn. “Maybe we’re being cruel to each other: him expecting me to just get what he means and know what he feels for me, and me waiting for him to be this romantic, sweet, _dream-guy_ that I apparently can’t stop wanting him to be. Maybe . . . maybe it’s time to admit that we’re chasing after people that we’ll _never_ be for each other.”

 _And maybe_ you’re _giving up too soon on the_ best _thing that’s ever happened to you,_ that voice countered. _Maybe you’re too willing to fold at the first spot of trouble, because working it out with Duke will be tough_ and _painful. But it’ll be so worth it, if you_ do _tough it out. He’s not your dream-guy,_ yet _, but he’s got the_ potential _to be that, and so much more, with just a bit of patience. You just have to help him_ realize _that potential. If Duke does, indeed, take you for granted at all, it’s because he trusts you to love him and understand him in spite of who he is. Maybe_ because _of who he is. In any event, the road to your happily ever after will either be a stroll through Heaven or a season in Hell, and you’re the only one who can pick your road. No matter which you choose, Duke will be waiting at the end of it. Even if you leave him, it won’t be over. You’ll just be delaying the inevitable and possibly causing you both unnecessary pain._

“That . . . that doesn’t make any sense!” Jamie exclaimed angrily, though a part of him understood that Mom-Melissa voice _perfectly_. _Accepting what it said_ was another matter, entirely. “That’s just silly platitudes to—”

Just then, Jamie’s phone buzzed.

He _instantly_ fumbled it back out of his pocket, telling himself that he _had_ to check it STAT, just in case it _was_ his mother and there was some sort of problem. But once he got to his messages, he saw that it definitely _wasn’t_ from his mom.

 _Heaven or Hell . . . it’s your choice. The road is entirely of your making,_ that voice reminded him, then fell silent once more. After a moment of hesitation, Jamie touched his phone with a trembling finger, to open the text.

**Duke Vincent <3: The stars remind me of**

**your eyes. The moonlight looks nice.**

**Can we please have sex? <3**

Jamie could only gape for the better part of a minute. Then. . . .

. . . then he was burying his face in his hand and chuckling. Then laughing. Then guffawing.

#

At the laughter sounding from the other side of the door, Duke’s heart beat fast in tentative relief as he smiled.

“Duke Vincent, amateur poet: 1. The forces of entropy and despair: 0!”

 _That last line,_ especially _, was _gold,_ Duke’s brain noted, all but preening. _I thought that_ please _was a nice touch! Without my flair, we’d have_ maybe _a line about some nice moonlight . . . and a lifetime of loneliness to follow. Admit it!__

____

____

“For all the trouble you sometimes get me into, you’re still part of me. Part of the man Jamie still—hopefully—loves.” Duke’s smile widened.

 _Hopefully_. And there was _nothing_ more hopeful to Duke than a laughing Jamie Gardner.

“Couldn’t have done it without ya,” he murmured to his brain as he stood up and turned to face the door. A split second later it was yanked open and Jamie stood in the entryway, wide-eyed and flushed, still laughing as he gazed, eyes sparkling and fond, up at Duke.

“W-was that a _haiku_ , Demarest Michael Vincent?”

“Technically, it was a _senryu_ ,” Duke informed him, shrugging, and still grinning haplessly as Jamie giggled and looked at Duke as if seeing him with new eyes. Duke could only hope those new eyes were rose-colored. He held his arms wide open. “C’mere, baby?”

Jamie snorted, covering his mouth for a moment, before rolling his eyes and reaching out to grab the front of Duke’s uniform. “ _You_ c’mere,” he murmured, and tugged Duke across the threshold and into the house. Into a long, _hungry_ kiss that didn’t end even when Jamie had climbed Duke’s frame like a tree and latched onto him with both strength and desperation. Nor did it end when the kiss became more like sustained, open-mouthed panting as they tried to catch their breaths some unknowable time later. And it _certainly_ didn’t end when Duke moaned and kicked the door shut behind them, then carried Jamie toward the staircase, one hand on that perfect ass, the other cupping the back of Jamie’s shaggy head.

And it didn’t end for a long time after they got to Jamie’s bedroom, either.

#

“ _Romantic bastard_ ,” Jamie huffed out on a panting exhale some hours later, his chest heaving against Duke’s, his thighs still clamped tight around Duke’s hips.

The kiss—among some other _delightful_ things—had, finally, ended. The moon had long since set, leaving the room in a near-total darkness that Duke’s eyes could barely pierce. Also panting, he nonetheless hummed contentedly before rolling his limp, sweaty, and heavy body off his boyfriend’s. When Duke settled next to Jamie in the narrow bed, the smaller man instantly cuddled up against him, throwing one long, _possessive_ leg over Duke’s.

“Get used to the romancin’, Jamie-baby, ‘cause _this_ joystick-jockey is turnin’ over a new leaf: that of rom-com hero . . . Ryan Gosling-style.” Duke smirked into the darkness, up at the ceiling, his wrung-out body still zinging tiredly from skin-to-skin contact with Jamie. He held his lover close, running one appreciative hand up and down his baby-doll’s lean, smooth flank, and his smirk turned into a doofy grin as Jamie snuggled even closer, one hand curled over Duke’s heart and his face tucked into Duke’s neck. “I’m _done_ takin’ your sexy ass and amazing heart for granted, sweetheart. Finito-complete-o.”

“Mmm . . . sounds nice, but don’t worry about it. I’m . . . learning to adjust my thinking. And my _feeling_. Romance is as romance does, after all.” Jamie chuckled sleepily then sighed. “But that voice was kinda wrong, y’know? You’re _already_ my dream-guy—no tweaking required, except to my dreams, maybe.”

 _Huh?_ Duke’s brain was worried.  < _Is_ Jamie _hearing voices, now? Does he have a smart, but perhaps too-chatty brain guiding_ him _through life, also?_

Duke hummed, but decided that wasn’t likely to be the case. What were the odds, after all, that both he _and_ his boyfriend were nuts in the same way?

 _So . . . is he . . . is he saying that even if we’re not exactly romantic, in a_ traditional _sense, that it’s the thought and effort that counts? That he . . . that he loves us_ anyway _, for trying?_

Anything was possible, Duke supposed. But, no, _this_ needed further clarification.

“Did you just call me . . . your _dream-guy_ , James Randal Gardner?”

Jamie sat up just enough to buss Duke’s lips, lingering and murmuring against them. “You _are_ my dream-guy, Duke Vincent. Even if you’re _not_ the most romantic man in the world all the time, and even if we have to work on our communication skills . . . you’re still _everything_ I’ve ever wanted, and then some. And I love you dearly.”

All of him rendered speechless, for once, even his chatty brain, Duke palmed the back of Jamie’s neck and nuzzled perpetually messy, dark hair. Then he kissed Jamie’s crown and inhaled that oranges-and-vanilla scent that meant _everything good_ in the world to him . . . but most especially love. And _home_.

“And I love you, sweetheart. _Forever_ ,” he whispered as Jamie sighed and curled up with him again, his body weighty with contentment, half on top of Duke’s, and his breath slowing on Duke’s throat. In minutes, he was asleep, his body pliant and warm in Duke’s arms, as Duke stroked up and down Jamie’s back slowly and gently.

Finally, Duke closed his own eyes, feeling pretty worn-out, himself. “F’rever an’ ever, my Jamie.”

 _All's well that ends well?_ Duke's brain inquired. Hurtling into his inner-space like a comet, Duke was quick to agree

 **Uh, _YEAH_! _That_ was even better than _Shark Week_! For-realsies!** Duke whooped happily, silently, inside his skull. His brain chuckled, already wrapping itself up in the cloak of psychic darkness that was their subconscious.

 _You’re not wrong,_ it replied absently, already composing the first line of yet another poem . . . this one a sestina on the agonizing raptures of love . . . and Jamie Gardner’s eyes in the midst of ecstasy. Perhaps it _might_ one day even let Duke recite _this one_ to Jamie. _In any event, rest well, my friend._

 **You know it, bro.** Duke yawned hugely and hugged Jamie closer. It wasn’t long before he, too, was barely conscious. **G’night, Brain. Happy sestina-ing. . . .**

_And sweet dreams, to you, Demarest._

Soon after, Duke Vincent dropped off into a deep, restful sleep.

The rest was silence.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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